Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

Mao Shi quickened his pace excitedly—this kind of brutal cold was sheer torture for someone raised in the south. But no matter how long we walked, the cabin still looked far away. As the saying goes, "Looking at a mountain can run a horse to death"—what seems near is often deceptively far. It took us forty minutes of brisk hiking, panting and exhausted, before we finally reached the little cabin.

"At last!" Mao Shi gasped, knocking on the door. "Anyone home? We're travelers, just need to ask something." He knocked a few more times.

That day was bitterly cold. Later, I'd see on the news that it was the coldest Siberian front in a century. If you're from the northeast, think back to the worst blizzard you remember—that was the time Old Zhang's story took place.

A moment later, the door opened, revealing a middle-aged man around fifty with a thick beard already frozen with ice crystals. He barked in a strong northern accent, "What are you doing out here! In this kind of cold, you should be holed up at home instead of wandering around like fools!"

"Sir, we're backpackers heading to Changbai Mountain," Mao Shi explained. "Got lost—just wanted to warm up a bit."

He stepped aside to let us in. "You guys must be crazy—going into the mountains after winter's begun?" He sized us up. "And dressed like that? One good snowstorm will freeze you into icicles."

I could tell he was a good man. "It's our first time here—colder than Shenyang by far," I offered.

"You're from Shenyang?" he asked, eyes on me.

I nodded, and he warmed up, chatting as he poured each of us a small glass of baijiu, saying it'd warm us. The fiery liquor spread heat from head to toe. Since I was also from the northeast, we had no trouble striking up a conversation. Soon we learned his name was Chen Tiebao—a forest ranger whose mother was Korean.

Mao Shi asked why he'd stay out here alone in the brutal cold—surely no one would come to steal anything in winter?

But Chen scoffed. He explained that spring and fall were fine, but every winter some people ventured into the mountains to "hunt treasures"—poaching animals or digging wild ginseng. Others came to illegally cut rare plants like Taxus chinensis (Chinese yew). These ancient trees can be over 3,000 years old, with even the youngest a thousand-plus. A sapling the size of a hand could be worth tens of thousands. The world's oldest yews grow here in Jilin. Chen said his family had been forest rangers for generations—but it would end with him.

This dedication humbled me. How many people could give up the comforts of society to protect the wilderness? Saddened, I said, "Don't lose hope, sir. Once the government improves pay, more people will come to this profession."

He tapped his pipe, shaking his head. "Do you think forest rangers just watch trees?"

Mao Shi, unfamiliar with the northeast, answered first: "You guard the forest from fires. I saw news about the Great Xing'anling fire destroying rare plants. The government raised ranger salaries afterward."

"That's what TV tells you. But TV also says China and Japan are best friends—do you believe that?" Chen retorted sharply.

His bluntness shut Mao Shi right up. I had to chuckle. Mountains always hide strange tales—clearly, this man's job was more than just firewatching. Before today, even I thought like Mao Shi, but Chen opened my eyes.

He told us he'd entered the mountains at seventeen, worshipping the Mountain God. Every blade of grass and tree was a gift from the deity. He explained how getting lost was common; compasses were unreliable at night because rising ground energy (diqi) disrupted the magnetic field. Follow a compass at the wrong time and it could lead you straight off a cliff—where the compass pointed most "accurately" because there was no ground underneath.

He also knew camouflage—how to disguise a yew so it couldn't be spotted. He shared mountain rules, like never relieving yourself at tree roots at night, or how to build a fire correctly, how to survive in the wild, and the bravery required to confront poachers. Most importantly: sharpshooting skills.

Inside his cabin were old rifles and hunting guns. Mao Shi asked why he didn't keep a dog.

Chen sighed. "Dahei died two years ago saving me from a bear. After that, I couldn't train another. Raising a dog is like raising a child, and sending them out in the bitter cold is just too dangerous. Better to keep them home guarding chickens from weasels."

"You're getting older, sir. Isn't it time to switch to an easier job?" Mao Shi suggested.

But Chen shook his head. "It's not that simple. This job is passed from father to son—my father to me, then my son. But I have no son. My wife gave me four daughters. Back then, the village forced me into the mountains; if I hadn't gone, they'd have fined me into ruin."

I felt sorry for him. If he was right, a unique folk tradition might vanish with him. But then he slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Let's go. A big snow's coming. Once the mountain's sealed, you'll be stuck—our snow's deadly. Even a mile can kill you."

Mao Shi and I exchanged worried looks. Nature doesn't negotiate.

After warming up, we set off with Chen. When he saw the wula grass in our boots, he praised me—young people who still remembered their ancestors' knowledge were rare these days. Walking through the snowy woods, the sky turned white as the storm approached. Breathing the freezing air stabbed like knives in our lungs.

I suddenly remembered Zhao Dadan had also gone to Jilin's Changsong Village, so I asked Chen. He corrected me: our destination was Zhangjia Puzi, on the opposite end from Changsong Village. That place lay deep in the mountains. The village of 200 households had refused government relocation, with elders blocking roads and daring bulldozers to run them over—forcing the state to spend heavily to extend electricity there.

Crossing the dense forest, everything was a white blur. Without real skills, you'd be hopelessly lost here. Mao Shi, already stiff from the cold, left most of the conversation to Chen and me.

As we reached an open area, Chen suddenly said, "Quiet now. Don't speak. If you disturb the Mountain God, people will die."

People will die? I'd faced monsters and ghosts—but could an empty field be so dangerous?

Just as I was about to ask, Mao Shi whispered, teeth chattering, "It's a burial ground. Don't talk."

A burial ground? But burial grounds usually had mounds—why was this flat as a table?

Chen whipped his head around, surprised. "How did you know?"

"Family tradition—my family are yin-yang masters," Mao Shi admitted, reluctantly revealing himself.

In rural areas, yin-yang masters outrank county officials—no one rolls out a feast for a mayor, but a yin-yang master gets the best hospitality because villagers believe they can bring good luck or change a family's fate.

"Truly honored," Chen said respectfully.

"This place saw a lot of death, didn't it?" Mao Shi asked.

At that, I also sensed something wrong. Even on windless days before snow, a faint breeze always stirs. But across the 500-meter clearing ahead, not a single tree grew—and the air was unnaturally still. In feng shui, gathering wind is good, but if it gathers evil energy (sha), it becomes deadly.

Chen explained that in his grandfather's time, a village stood here. A landslide buried it, killing everyone. Rescue teams spent a month clearing debris and recovering bodies, which were cremated and placed in a communal grave. Years passed, but nothing grows here—any plant dies instantly, as if the ground were cursed.

He added that during full moons, steam rises from an old well in the ruined village. Locals said the well water cured diseases—even cancer—which sounded unbelievable. Could such "immortal water" really exist in the mundane world?

"From here, speak softly," Chen warned. "There are set paths—stray, and you'll die. Once, some kids came to light firecrackers. They died horribly."

His words chilled me. Those mummified bodies sounded just like the scientists who died—could the well and the dragon be connected? A flood of questions raced through my mind. Even Mao Shi fell silent in thought.

Following Chen quietly, an oppressive unease settled over me. I slipped a copper coin from my medicine pouch, tossing it when Chen looked away. A shocking scene unfolded: the moment it hit the ground, a deafening bang like fireworks exploded, shaking us violently.

"Mountain God's angry! Have mercy!" Chen cried, dropping to his knees, kowtowing.

Mao Shi, steadying himself, shouted, "What happened?!"

I took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the barren land. Here, the Wolf Star cuts heaven, Seven Kill Star splits earth, and the Breaking Army Star shatters the ground's energy. A thousand lives were sacrificed, forcing the true dragon's energy into the well. The copper coin—a consecrated talisman—had collided with this intense evil aura, releasing a sky-shattering sound as it dissipated.

Judging by the timeline, such a deadly formation of a thousand deaths would cripple a nation's destiny. But was this a natural disaster—or a deliberate act?